


Dulcia Somnia

by Ghostie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostie/pseuds/Ghostie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur sleeps, he always dreams of the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams

 

            Arthur is absentmindedly rolling his die over and over again when Yusuf comes in, and says he needs a test subject for some new compound of his. Just one person, and not for very long. Arthur looks around the room. Dom’s staring into space, Ariadne’s looking over some paradoxical map that will probably make his head hurt, and Eames is polishing his pocket watch. Arthur stands up and stretches.

            “I can do it,” he says, and follows Yusuf out of the room.

            He’s done this a million times; it’s pretty much routine now. The only snag would be someone jumping into his dream while he’s out, but luckily, the guy staying awake with him is Dom, and if anyone knows not to pry into what’s going on in someone’s head, it’s Dom.

            Arthur kind of wonders if he suspects, but he doesn’t trust anyone else not to sneak into his dreams while waiting to give the kick. Ariadne’s way too curious about everyone, and Eames… well, Arthur’s pretty sure that scenario would end with him getting beaten to hell and back. Considering what he’s dreaming of.

 

* * *

            The dream opens in a hotel room overlooking some nameless dream city that sparkles in the dark. Arthur pauses to admire the sensuous velvets and soft lights of the room –Ariadne’s not the only passable architect around, after all. He sits down on the bed, intent on the door.

            It takes longer than it usually does for the projection of Eames to show up, but when he does, it’s in true Eames fashion. He swaggers in, peers into the mini bar and selects what Arthur is sure is the most expensive drink available. Leaning against the doorframe, he grins as he swigs it.

            “Hello, Darling.”

            Arthur is quiet for a moment, as he once again realizes how pathetic this all is. Eames may call him darling, and perhaps that’s acceptable grounds for a little crush. But Arthur is positive that the endearments are only used because Eames knows they make him twitch a bit, and misidentifies this as annoyance rather than something… else. And there’s a huge difference between a crush and constructing obsessive dreams like this one.

            Meanwhile, Eames has finished his bottle. He tosses it carelessly behind him, and saunters over, sitting next to Arthur on the bed. There’s a trace of wickedness on his face, Arthur notes. It’s so hard to get the simulacrum right, but this is probably the best one he’s come up with so far.

            “What are you dreaming of?” Eames murmurs.

Arthur mentally shrugs; he doesn’t see any reason to lie to his self-conscious. “You,” he whispers.

            Eames is silent for a moment, before chuckling. “In what context, Love?”

            This is where Arthur draws the line, because even in his dreams he can’t quite bring himself to say, “Every time you tease me it kind of makes me want to drag you into my bedroom and do dirty, dirty things to you.” Anyway, he’s kind of terrified the projection would react like the real one would, with threats of bodily harm at the very least.

            So instead, he kisses him. Eames is stiff for a second before relaxing, and then surging against his lips, prying them open with his tongue. His left hand moves to cradle Arthur’s head, and his right to stroke the front of Arthur’s chest. Arthur is lost for a moment in the feeling, because this may be a dream, but _damn_, this Eames can kiss. He feels like his mouth is on fire, and the fleeting touches on his chest are like short jolts of electricity. Arthur pulls back for air, gasping when Eames begins licking at his neck instead. His breath comes in needy little whines.

            Eames bites his neck softly and Arthur moans. “You like this then, my pet?” the projection whispers against a patch of wet skin, and all Arthur can do is shiver at the sensation.

            Eames laughs and begins to rub Arthur’s nipples through his shirt. “Well?”

            It takes a second for him to remember how to talk, he’s so focused on feeling Eames’s tongue and hands on him. “Y-yes.” He chokes out. The thought still lurks that this isn’t real, can’t be real, but he’s almost past caring. The real Eames may never kiss him like this, but all the more reason to treasure it now.

            Eames grins and lets his hand ghost down to Arthur’s pants, brushing his fingers lightly over the fabric, grins more when he feels what’s beneath.

            “Do you want more?” he asks, drawing his hand away as he speaks, that damnable grin not moving from his face.

            Arthur glares past the haze of sensation and grabs at Eames’ hand, intent on putting it back where it was. Eames smiles wider, then, quick as lightning, grabs both of Arthur’s hands and shoves him back on the bed, pinioning Arthur’s wrists above his head. Eames moves with fluid motions so he’s positioned above Arthur, his eyes dark and sensual.

            “Now, now Love. One must be patient.”

            Arthur stares at him, wondering when his imagination got this good, and why it is that Eames’s sarcastic endearments are such a total fucking turn on. He needs more, and he really really needs it now.

            “Stop fucking around,” he breathes, but Eames just laughs.

            “We’ll get there eventually.” He says, moving one finger to rest on Arthur’s chin. “But first, must get this off.” He begins to slowly unbutton Arthur’s shirt with one hand while the other keeps Arthur pinned down, working on button by agonizing button. All the while his gaze never moves from Arthur’s desperate eyes.

            In the back of his mind, it occurs to him that he always imagined Eames ripping off his clothing with the kind of all consuming focus he displays in other aspects of life. He never imagined this kind of slow methodical torture- though since it is torture, and this is Eames, he guesses he should have.

            Still, it’s almost too much to bear, the lack of sensation. He wants desperately to feel Eames’s touch again, but he knows if he says anything Eames will just go slower, until he’s practically begging for it.

            “Wish this was real.” He whimpers into the hot air between the two of them.

            Eames raises an eyebrow, his hand stilling. “Do you dream about this a lot then, Darling?”

            All of a sudden the falseness of this hits him like a train and he’s left with the truth that in real life Eames just bothers him for fun, and would stop doing even that if he knew the affect it had on Arthur. “All the fucking time.” He thinks he can feel tears in his eyes when he answers.

            Eames stares at him for a moment before releasing Arthurs hands. He cradles his head as he starts kissing him again, slow and soft and careful. It’s almost jarring; Arthur can’t help but wonder if the real Eames would ever be able to show this kind of emotion.

            Eames’s hand snakes down his chest, breaking through his reverie. The fingers begin to work at the zipper, he keens as he feels them slip beneath the fabric and-

 

            The sensation of falling crashes through the dream, shearing through the warmth and the softness of the velvet beneath him. He clutches instinctively, feeling the cold of the metal chair rather than the heat of Eames’s limbs. He blinks.

            He’s back in the warehouse, his chair held at a slight backward angle by Dom. He can hear Yusuf mumbling something about the compound, but it passes over his ears like sea surf. Dom watches, frowning slightly as he begins removing the wires of the machine.

            “You alright?”

            Arthur rubs his eyes and nods. “Uh, yeah. Fine.”

            Yusuf taps him on the shoulder. “…and I need to know if you were able to meet up with him at all, and how long it took, if you can remember that.”

            Arthur guesses he must look pretty confused, because Yusuf rolls his eyes and clarifies. “Eames. We sent him in about thirty seconds after you, we wanted to see if-“

            That’s where he stops listening and freezes, his stomach clenching. He turns around and…shit. Because Eames is sitting in the other chair, wires trailing off his skin, an impenetrable expression on his face.

            “I- I’ll tell you later.” He mumbles to Yusuf, oblivious to whatever the chemist is saying. He climbs unsteadily to his feet, staring at, but not registering, the floor. “I need to go.” And with that he’s running, sprinting, out of the room and away from people he really can’t deal with right now. He picks a door at random and stumbles through it, then slides down to the floor, his hands shaking, his head pounding.

 

Fuck.

 


	2. Reality

Arthur is on edge for days after the incident, constantly afraid Eames is going to pop out of his shower with a machine gun or something. It doesn't help that they've got a job coming up, and a bloody complicated one too. He can't afford to be this jumpy.

Luckily, Eames seems to be acting exactly the same, save for a faint patina of reserve that coats all of his actions. Arthur supposes he should be grateful, but he almost wishes Eames would yell at him and call him a wanker in his ridiculous accent, or laugh it off like it was nothing. The reserve seems almost like pity, and that, more than anything else, he can't stand.

Arthur doesn't let his feelings show though. Regardless of the things that go on in his dreams, he's a professional. He's cordial and polite to Eames, like any business associate would be. Even if he can't quite meet his eyes.

He manipulates circumstances so he's never alone with Eames, always finding a reason to leave or call over someone else. One can't keep that up for very long without being conspicuous as hell though, and he's pretty sure the rest of the team notices. He's also pretty sure they're getting really annoyed with him.

His suspicions are confirmed one night when Yusuf asks him to grab a bottle of Windex from the supply room. Arthur shrugs and nods, assuming he needs it for some kind of crazy experiment. Hopefully nothing he'll be drinking in the future. He walks into the room, and is searching for the Windex bottle when he hears someone come in behind him. He turns around to see Eames, looking rather guilty. "Sorry love. Ariadne said she needed the pine sol."

They both wince as the sound of the lock engaging cuts through the silence.

Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose and thinks about how he's going to kill Yusuf and Ariadne. And Cobb too; he probably came up with this.

"So," says Eames.

"So," replies Arthur.

"We should, uh, talk. About stuff"

"Talking about stuff is, um, good."

"It is, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"…"

"…"

Eames explodes. "Oh bloody hell! Are we, or aren't we going to address the fact that you apparently have regular fantasies in which a projection of myself has his bloody way with you on bloody satin sheets?"

Arthur blinks. "Seeing as you've brought it up."

Eames makes an exasperated noise. "Really Arthur, it's actually quite flattering. And I'm not against to the idea." He grins and moves closer, so that his mouth is inches from Arthur's ear. "We could start where we stopped last time."

Arthur leans towards him. He wants it so badly. This is not at all what he expected from Eames. At the very least, he expected violent opposition.

And Eames wouldn't be opposed to this at all, Arthur realizes. That was the problem. He'd sleep with anyone if he thought it would be fun, and bounce right back from it the next day.

But Arthur's not like that. Because this isn't about the sex for him, and he can see where this path would lead. Eames off flirting with the next pretty thing he saw, and Arthur left behind, lonely again.

Arthur has to stop this, or he knows it will end with that, and he has to stop it now, or he won't be able to.

So he clenches his fists until the knuckles burn white. "Thanks, but no thanks. It was just a dream," he says, closing his eyes. "and I'd rather it stayed that way."

A long silence. A swallow. "All right then." The other man says, his voice steady and even.

Arthur doesn't watch Eames's face. He doesn't want to see Eames looking relieved because the burden of Arthur's feelings are out of the way, or angry because Arthur's pants are off limits.

He turns around instead and stands in rigid silence, intent on the wall.

Twenty minutes later Ariadne opens the door and he walks quickly out without a backwards glance.

* * *

Time passes. He tries to act normally around the other man but Eames won't quite meet his eyes. When Arthur lies alone at night, unable to sleep, he reflects that even so, it's probably for the best.

* * *

Arthur sits on his hotel bed and watches Eames pace back and forth in front of him. He doesn't ask the other man what he's doing in his room, how he found the hotel, or how he knew the room number.

Eames abruptly stops pacing and whips his head around to face Arthur. "Right. Look, I know you don't want to see me but-" he stops and makes an inarticulate noise of frustration, waving his hands. "You aren't eating or sleeping. You just stare into space like a damn puppet all day. Arthur," he asks, "what the hell is wrong?" His brow is creasing and Arthur has to look away. "I'm worried about you."

Arthur chokes a bit, because of all the things he doesn't want to hear, that's up there. "I'm fine. Paranoia doesn't suit you."

Eames doesn't rise to the bait. "Really," he says, and Arthur can hear the doubt in his voice.

Arthur looks up, forces himself to meet the other man's eyes. "Really," he says.

Eames is quiet for a moment. He suddenly sits down on the bed next to Arthur and he's close, too close. Arthur can feel his breath on his skin and his eyes are over bright with some emotion Arthur can't identify. "That," Eames hisses, "is not fucking good enough. You are going to tell me what's wrong right now- or I will go into your mind and find out."

This, Arthur can handle. He's used to Eames's old antagonism; his reply comes easily. "That's an empty threat. My security's better. You won't find anything."

Eames's eyes smolder. "I'll keep going down levels until I do. And when I end up in limbo, I'll have endless time for it."

Arthur blanches and doesn't say anything, because that isn't fair and Eames knows it, even if he doesn't realize the depths of Arthur's feelings for him.

Eames presses on through Arthur's indecision. "Please, darling," he whispers.

It's the term of endearment that breaks him. Dropping his eyes to the floor, Arthur starts talking, and can't seem to stop. "You… I want- fuck, I need…"

Eames blinks. His brow furrows, and Arthur can almost see the cogs turning; the light bulb going on. "But you said…"

Arthur laughs, knowing the sound is broken and pathetic as it leaves his mouth. "Self-preservation." He glares up at Eames, daring him to interrupt. "Not everyone just wants a quick fuck to tide them over until something better comes along."

There's a long stretch of agonized silence. It's Eames who breaks it.

"Oh Arthur," he says. His voice is cracked, and the words sound like they are painful to him.

Arthur begins to scoot away.

And suddenly Eames is grabbing him, shoving him back onto the bed, rolling on top of him with an inarticulate snarl. Arthur stares up at him, reminded of the hotel room dream. Except this time Eames's eyes aren't seductive, or teasing, or sly.

They look like they're boiling over with rage.

Arthur flinches from the gaze. "I'm sorry-"

His words are swallowed when Eames swoops down to cover his mouth with his own, and he's kissing him, violently kissing him.

"Arthur," he growls between kisses. "You are-" he bites Arthur's lip, "a bloody idiot." He pulls his head back and glares down at him. "How could you think-"

Arthur's head feels fuzzy, but damn it, he's still going to argue this. "You'd leave, I know you-"

Eames cuts him off again, kissing his neck so ardently Arthur kind of forgets how to talk, instead breaking down into quiet whimpers.

"I am not going anywhere," he hisses against Arthur's sweaty skin, nuzzling his jawbone.

"Liar," Arthur whispers.

Eames pulls back, raising an eyebrow. "Oh pet," he says, "I'm going to prove you wrong."

And because even though Arthur knows the smart thing to do would be to stand up and leave, to not let Eames and his incredibly agile hands go any further, there's still some part of him that can't resist the challenge.

"I'll believe it when I see it," he says.

Without further ado, Eames yanks at Arthur's shirt, and Arthur winces at the sound of the fabric tearing as it falls away from his chest. It was one of his favorites. There's an intensity to Eames now that isn't normal, Arthur realizes. He usually acts like the world is all a private joke to him. Not so now. For once, Eames seems deathly serious.

It's just his luck that the thing Eames is serious about is sucking Arthur's skin until he's biting back screams. There are going to be bruises later, he's sure.

After the shredded shirt drops to the ground, Eames attacks the buttons of Arthur's pants, and pushes the fabric down so it pools around his ankles. His underwear follow; Arthur dimly notices his own traitorous hands are helping.

Then Eames slips a hand between Arthur's legs and Arthur stifles a yelp.

He's always prided himself on his control. He can be composed and calm when facing trained gunmen, fucking gigantic avalanches, or any other kind of mortal peril a mark can dream up. But apparently all it takes to unravel that concentration is the teasing strokes of Eames's fingers and the light touch of his tongue.

Eames smiles at him. Snaking his head down across Arthur's bare chest, he plants kisses as he goes. He pauses at Arthur's nipples, nibbling and sucking on the left one as his hands move down to stroke Arthur's inner thighs, which tremble at the fleeting touches.

Arthur pulls at Eames's shirt and pants, but Eames bats his hands away and he settles for twining them through Eames's hair instead. By now Arthur's nipples are hard, and Eames abandons them, moving downward until he's settled between Arthur's legs.

When Arthur realizes what Eames is planning, he tries to sit up. "God Eames no, you don't have to- I'm not some pity case-"

Eames cuts him off with an expertly placed swipe of his tongue from the base to the tip of Arthur's half-hard cock. Arthur shudders.

"No, darling, Eames says. "I don't have to. I want to." He swirls his tongue around the tip for emphasis. "Surely you don't mind?"

Arthur doesn't mind but he still can't quite believe that this whole train wreck isn't due to Eames's warped sense of pity. He opens his mouth to object.

Then Eames begins to suck, and his mouth is hot and wet and oh fuck.

Arthur's powers of speech are sufficiently terminated; his only response is a rather flustered whimper. His toes curl and his hands twist into the sheets; he clings to them like a drowning man to a lifesaver. The room dissolves, leaving only the here and the now, the trembling of his limbs, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the all consuming suction of Eames's mouth.

His breath is coming in short whines now, and god be damned whether Eames is going to leave later, for now he's here and that's all that matters. And if this is going to be the only time, he might as well enjoy it. "Eames?"

Eames looks up from between his thighs, releasing Arthur's aching cock.

The sight of him, wet lipped and fully dressed, makes Arthur want to come on the spot. "F-fuck me."

Tilting his head in consideration, Eames licks slowly down Arthur's length, then laves the head with the tip of his tongue. Arthur whimpers again. "If I do, darling, do you promise to trust me to stay?"

The man is a manipulative cheating bastard, Arthur thinks sourly, but any protest dies when Eames licks him again. He writhes against the sheets, desperate. "Fuck, fine, just-" is all he manages before Eames reaches up to kiss him.

It takes much longer than Arthur would like for Eames to get up, find the lube, and pull his pants off. It gives Arthur time to think about what the hell he's doing. And what Eames is doing. It occurs to him that Eames is a forger, and by extent a master of manipulation. What if everything Eames has said and done since he entered the room has been a exploitation of Arthur's rather obvious feelings?

"You think too much."

Arthur looks up in surprise as Eames returns to the bed, wearing nothing but a half-buttoned maroon shirt, the bottle of lube held in his hand like a promise.

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that. He glares and jerks his chin at Eames's shirt. "I refuse to let you debauch me in that thing."

Eames makes an exasperated noise then yanks it off and flings it across the room. Arthur almost protests; even that polyester monstrosity deserves to be folded properly- but then Eames is back on the bed with him, fully naked this time, and the proper care of clothing seems to matter much less. The forger's eyes soften as he unscrews the bottle of lube. "Believe me or not Arthur, I swear I've wanted to do this for ages. I still can't quite believe you're letting me."

The depth of the statement is lost on Arthur when Eames slips a lubricated finger inside him.

"Well, you're very-ahh persuasive." Arthur manages to bite out.

"I was on the debate team in high school." Eames says with a grin. He crooks his finger and Arthur jerks, squirming back against it.

"I- think this might go against debating rules."

Eames chuckles and adds another finger. "I don't recall there being anything in the rule book against fucking your opponent as a rhetorical strategy."

The fingers slide out, and are quickly replaced by something else. Arthur groans as Eames pushes in.

"You like that?" Eames asks, punctuating the question with an undulation of his hips.

"Hngh," is all Arthur manages in way of a reply.

Eames thrusts again, slowly and indolently, listening to Arthur's whimpers like they're fine music. He traces a finger down Arthur's chest. "You are so fucking beautiful right now."

"Gnnh- for fuck's sake, shut up and move," he pants, too far gone to care that he's begging. He feels like he's drowning in sheer need, desperate for more of the exquisite sensation Eames's touch provides him.

"Whatever you ask, darling."

And then Eames is thrusting faster, and canting his hips at just the right angle. Arthur squirms and arches his back, meeting each thrust with one of his own. He realizes he's speaking- desperate pleading, a cacophony of more and please, and Eames.

Arthur knows he's teetering on the edge, about to collapse. He lets out a cry. "I'm-"

Eames tenses, just as Arthur feels himself giving in. "Scream for me," he murmurs in Arthur's ear.

Arthur complies, a wordless sob tearing itself from him as he shudders through the climax in Eames's arms.

"You ruined my shirt." Arthur says, in what he hopes is a vaguely accusatory tone. Somehow he can't be too angry about it even though it was Armani, and new.

Eames smiles and puts an arm around him. "A necessary sacrifice, love. I'll buy you a new one in the morning."

They lie together, sweaty limbs entwined. Arthur takes the time to try figuring out what the hell just happened. He tenses when Eames rolls away from him, but instead of leaving, the other man rips the alarm clock cord from the wall and flips back towards Arthur.

"You'll stay, then?" Arthur says, gesturing at the bed, even though it isn't really what he's asking about. He's glad his voice doesn't quiver and betray how much is riding on the answer.

Eames holds his gaze, grinning. "I'm much to tired to leave now." He moves closer, one hand absentmindedly stroking Arthur's hair.

Arthur lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He's still wary, still cautious. But beneath it all there's a seed of hope planted, and he isn't going to force it away. Still…

"Really?"

Eames chuckles and draws Arthur into an embrace. "You said," he whispers, "I would leave when something better came along." Arthur closes his eyes, lulled by the feel of Eames's warm skin against his own. Eames's next words are soft, so soft he almost misses them.

"Arthur, how could I ever find someone better than you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And there's a second part! Yay! I cannot thank you guys enough for reading this and liking it, I'm still kind of shocked that anyone liked this enough to care to leave a review. Obviously I should write more smutty slash, hehe. I hope this second part doesn't let you guys down, and once again, thank you all soooooo much. And apologies for the time between updates, shit happens, you know?

**Author's Note:**

> Damn you Christopher Nolan! You not only end the movie with that evil cliffhanger, you make two of the characters so ridiculously flirty that I end up writing slash-fic for the first time.   
> On that note, since I don't really know if I'm doing it right, any comments about the hotness or lack thereof would be much appreciated (especially since I couldn't find anyone who was willing to beta for Inception.)  
> Also there will probably be a sequel. Hopefully.


End file.
